Riffling through the sea of images on Instagram and Tumblr, I see notebooks that are masterpieces. Works of art onto themselves.
I reach for Alice, hiding somewhere inside my mind. Notebook acting as ouija. What unravels on the page is not an orderly collection of notes. No showcase art. Clues and hopes, visions, and questions are just vomited onto the page.
I wish they were tidy and pretty. But they do not come from an orderly mind.
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